


the violet hour

by caramelle



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 10:48:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10569753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: Jyn can't sleep.Thankfully, it sounds like her neighbour can't, either.Or, the one where Jyn gets a new neighbour — one who turns out to be rather musically inclined.





	

**Author's Note:**

> fic inspired by [this tumblr post](http://www.lemonsharks.net/post/142876245033/classicstarlite-actualmodel-one-of-my)
> 
>  
> 
> this isn't quite as Lite™ as i'm accustomed to writing, but idk, man. fic took on a mind of its own. hope you enjoy nonetheless!
> 
> if you like looking at stuff, i also made a little graphic for this [here](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/159343326711)
> 
>  
> 
> (title from the song by the Civil Wars)

 

 

 

 

 

  


If insomnia is hereditary, Jyn supposes she could _technically_ blame her father for this.

 

As a kid, she'd assumed that he was up all hours of the night because he was obsessive. Because he was too wired up to sleep, too fond of working too hard.

 

As she got older, she'd thought maybe it was because he was afraid to sleep. Maybe he was too worried about the latest news from the doctor, too scared that he would close his eyes and never wake up.

 

And then it had started to hit her, too.

 

She hadn't minded all that much at first. Mostly because her father would find her in the living room at two or three in the morning, curled up on the couch and blinking sluggishly at the TV, volume turned almost all the way down. He'd whip them up a mug of hot chocolate each, and fold Jyn into his embrace, his body much frailer than before but still so much bigger than hers.

 

During the last few days of her father's life, she'd welcomed the sleepless nights. She'd felt _grateful_ , almost, for every extra moment she was given to trail her red-rimmed eyes over his face, memorise all the lines and dips and creases that she'd already learned by heart long ago.

 

Once he was gone, she'd _hated_  it. She'd done her best to keep as busy as she could, piling on as many things as she could in her daily schedule, wearing herself out to the fullest extent and then some just to edge her body closer to sleep every night.

 

And she'd fucking _resented_ those sleepless nights, too. A little bit because she was just so _tired._

 

Mostly because they just reminded her of her father.

 

Eventually, they went away.

 

They came back again, though. Nearly one year after Galen Erso's death.

 

And again, the next.

 

And the next.

 

All the same, she wouldn't describe it as a _completely_ regular occurrence. Sometimes the insomnia hits out of nowhere — five, six, seven months out from Galen Erso's death anniversary.

 

Sometimes it follows her about whenever she's particularly stressed about something. In those moments, she can actually _feel_ it in the stillness of the night, clinging to her like a second skin.

 

This is one of those moments.

 

 

* * *

 

 

So, yeah. Jyn can't sleep.

 

Thankfully, it sounds like her neighbour can't, either.

 

She doesn't know all that much about him. Not even a name.

 

She's seen him a few times in the hallway and down in the lobby where the mailboxes are. They nod to each other sometimes, but not even in a friendly way. It's more of that _'hey I see you and I know we live next to each other but I'm really exhausted and you look kinda wrecked too so maybe let's not stop to chat about the weather'_ kind of nod that far too few neighbours are practiced in giving. (Her previous neighbour had been an older woman named Mrs. Kennel. Mrs. Kennel had had boundary issues.)

 

But what she _does_ know about the man currently living in the apartment next to hers is that he'd moved in about three months ago, and that he's ruggedly handsome in that way that's more rugged than handsome.

 

She's also pretty sure that he doesn't have a regular office job, but that's really more of a hunch than anything, gleaned from faint door slams at seemingly random hours of the day.

 

The night her insomnia returns, she learns one more thing about him.

 

She's always envied people who can play musical instruments. She'd tried a couple of them out as a kid, but she'd never really had much patience for it. Or for any activity that required sitting still for long stretches of time, really.

 

Her neighbour, on the other hand, clearly does.

 

He's good, she thinks idly as she settles on her couch with a mug of hot chocolate.

 

Not that she's an _expert,_ or anything. Hardly that.

 

She's really just going by the way the rise and fall of the notes make her _feel._ Like she's twelve years old again, sitting in the swivel chair in her father's study — the one with the broken height adjustment lever — watching him hunch over a table full of blueprints and structural plans, the stereo behind him playing soft piano music from a bunch of old cassette tapes they've had as long as Jyn can remember.

 

Galen Erso was never much of a classical music buff, but those tapes were more than just music to him. They were _memories,_ from a time when he'd found himself falling in love with a beautiful, strong woman. A woman who had taught him there was so much more to life than knowledge, and power, and the numbers attached to your bank account.

 

A woman who eventually became the mother of his child.

 

 _"This was your mother's favourite,"_ he'd say whenever a particular piece came on — like they didn't both already know that all the pieces were her favourite.

 

 _"Mine too,"_ she'd say anyway, her heart glowing at the soft smile she'd always get in return, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

She doesn't recognise the piece her neighbour's playing now, but it makes the warmth of the hot chocolate seep right through her hands and into her chest.

 

He segues right into another once it's done, the notes dancing around each other, pillowed by the quietness rather than piercing through it.

 

She almost feels sorry when they stop, about twenty minutes later.

 

"Thanks for the show, neighbour," she murmurs to herself, setting her empty mug in the sink before heading back to her room for another attempt at getting some semblance of rest before her morning alarm goes off. Another _fruitless_ attempt, probably.

 

To her surprise, she falls asleep the minute her head touches the pillow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, she blinks awake to the muffled sound of the piano playing again.

 

Stretching out in her bed, she turns over onto her back, staring at the ceiling as the melody washes over her, soothing and reassuring.

 

She doesn't even know how long she lays there, listening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The elevator doors are just starting to close when she spots a flash of dark hair down the hall.

 

He looks almost surprised to see the doors halt jarringly, and pull back open again, staring blankly for a beat before catching up. He quickens his stride, breaking into a slight jog to get to the elevator.

 

"Thanks," he says once he's in, the doors sliding closed behind him.

 

"Sure," Jyn says simply, letting her hand drop from the buttons.

 

They ride the elevator in silence, letting three floors pass by without another word.

 

"Bye," he offers when the doors roll open with a cheery 'ding!', flashing her a small, quick smile as he starts out of the small box.

 

"Bye," she echoes, letting him pull ahead of her to the front door of the building.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Rough day?" Jyn mutters idly as she stirs her hot chocolate.

 

Here she is again — close to three in the morning, still up out of bed and far too wide awake, and it sounds like her neighbour is, too.

 

For some reason, though, the music sounds a lot… not exactly _darker,_ but not exactly _not_ that, either _._ She's hearing a lot more minors and flats than usual — if she can call the last week or so of basically eavesdropping on his playing "usual", that is.

 

He keeps starting pieces and then cutting them off halfway, too, instead of completing them or transitioning into another piece.

 

She winces slightly when she hears him pause, and then thunk out a particularly dissonant chord.

 

"Honestly?" she says to no one as she lifts the mug to her lips. "Same."

 

 

* * *

 

 

A couple weeks in, Jyn thinks she's more or less worked out her neighbour's performance schedule.

 

He never plays more than thirty minutes or so at a stretch, and never before midnight, so it's a pretty safe bet that he doesn't play to get good or anything. He never really sticks to one particular style or genre, either. Sometimes he'll play music that isn't classical — Johnny Cash, or Bob Dylan or something. Sometimes he'll play themes she recognises from TV shows and old movies and stuff.

 

One night, she spends about two minutes with her eyes closed, head tilted sideways as she soaks in the rhythmic lilts of a piece before suddenly realising that it's basically an acoustic version of that song from _Moana,_ the one that had been all over the radio for a few months.

 

It makes her smile into her hot chocolate.

 

(She's not sure why. She never even _watched_ the film.)

 

Either way, it's definitely safe to assume that he's no professional. It sounds like he plays the way some people drink — to take the edge off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes he has nights where he's off.

 

She can hear it in his playing. The melodies aren't as smooth, the chords are choppier, and he rarely gets to the end of a piece before giving it up abruptly, the heavy silence of the night air cutting in almost tangibly.

 

On those nights, it doesn't really sound like he doesn't _want_ to play. It sounds more like he can't really decide _what_ to play. Like nothing's _working,_ or something.

 

This seems like one of those nights.

 

Jyn tugs on her lower lip with her teeth as he leaves off yet again, the dull echo of the notes hanging in the air.

 

Before she can think too much about it, she grabs the pad of paper she usually leaves on the coffee table.

 

Two minutes later, she's easing her front door open as quietly as she can. Leaving the latch lodged between the door and the jamb, she tiptoes down the hall to the door marked '3B'.

 

Quickly, before the rational side of her brain can catch up, she crouches low, sliding the folded sheet of paper under the door before springing right back up, hurrying back to her door as fast as she can without outright _running._

 

Carefully shutting her door behind her, she sighs, letting her forehead dip forward to press against the wood. It's been a long time since her heart has pounded _this_ quickly.

 

It's still quiet.

 

 _He probably won't play it,_ she tells herself as she turns away from the door, padding quietly towards her couch. _Maybe he won't_ know _it. Fuck, maybe he won't even notice a stupid piece of paper under his door._

 

And then — a note, followed by a distinct major sixth interval.

 

By the time he gets to the first trill, wetness has already started to prick at the corners of her eyes.

 

She sinks down onto the couch, all of her breath suspended in her lungs as the familiar notes surround her.

 

For those few minutes, she lets herself be swept up in it.

 

Once it ends, the notes drift away into the silence, melting and melding into the fold of the quiet — so different from the abrupt clashes of the rest of the night.

 

She swallows.

 

And then she lifts her hands, and claps.

 

He doesn't play anything more after that.

 

 

 

The next morning, she finds a folded sheet of paper at her own door.

 

There's just one word on it, spelled out in bold, dark strokes.

 

_Thanks._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two nights later, she's coming off of a particular shitty day — one of those that make her feel like swapping out hot chocolate for whiskey.

 

Halfway through her third drink, she feels bold enough to make another request.

 

She's not really expecting much when she scribbles down the title of a Civil Wars song and slides it under his door.

 

He plays that song, and two more.

 

She applauds after every one.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It feels like the weirdest fucking secret anyone's ever had.

 

It's not so much that she's _trying_ to hide it. It's just that… even _if_ she wanted to tell someone about it, she wouldn't even know where to begin.

 

Bodhi wouldn't understand it, of that much she's certain. He'd have so many _questions._ She can practically hear them now — _'What's his name? When did your insomnia start again? How can you not know his name? Have you never_ talked _to him? Did you pick up more sleeping pills? Why didn't you introduce yourself when he moved in?'_

 

Baze would just _frown_ at her, completely baffled by the whole thing.

 

Chirrut would just _smile._ Like he always does. Like he knows something she doesn't.

 

Hell, he probably does.

 

Either way, the whole situation remains _highly_ peculiar, and a little ridiculous. Especially when she starts changing up the requests a _lot_ more, just to see what will happen. (His take on Beyoncé's 'Halo' was a _lot_ more heartwarming than she'd expected.)

 

He seems to be on a bit of a pop culture kick one night, playing songs from iconic movies and classic films. She figures there's no harm in jumping in as she scribbles down a request for the _Star Wars_ theme. He actually _delivers,_ complete with interpolations of all the softer, romantic love themes _and_ Darth Vader's booming march sequence.

 

She claps even more enthusiastically than usual once he ends it off with a big flourish, feeling giddy enough to throw in a little whoop of her own. (She's not entirely sure, but she thinks she might even hear a muffled laugh through the walls.)

 

It's easily the best time with insomnia she's ever had in her _life._ Certainly the most entertaining.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One night, there's no music.

 

It's not exactly _uncommon._ He doesn't play every single night; just most of them. If it weren't for the weather steadily getting colder, she would spend those nights out on the fire escape.

 

All the same, she feels even more restless than usual, getting up from the couch to pace aimless circles in her living room.

 

After she loses track of the number of laps she's made around the room, she sighs, and heads towards the kitchen. Might as well settle in with some hot chocolate — piano-playing neighbour or no.

 

The knock at the door comes right after she sets the electric kettle to boil, making her freeze with her finger still on the little plastic switch.

 

She pads out of the kitchen, grabbing a large hoodie from where it's draped over the back of a chair on her way out. She shrugs it on over her tank top and leggings before undoing the latch and opening the door.

 

To his credit, her neighbour looks just as discomfited by this unexpected turn of events as she feels, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other as he stands in the corridor, in a plain tee and soft grey sweatpants.

 

"Sorry," he says, his voice a little rough, the way people's voices get late into the night. "I mean… about knocking on your door like this. In the middle of the night and all." He pauses, his brows furrowing. "On second thought, you really shouldn't have answered. I could be a burglar, or something."

 

She raises a brow, tugging the door wider open by an inch or two. "In that case, I don't think I'd mind as much. You're probably the politest burglar that ever burgled. Knocking first and all."

 

He huffs a wry laugh, and it suddenly strikes her that she's never actually seen him _smile._

 

"Right," he says, one hand raking through his already tousled dark hair. He pauses, looking at her. "This is awkward, isn't it?"

 

"About as awkward as showing up at your neighbour's door at—" she casts a quick glance over her shoulder, eyes seeking out the clock in her kitchen. "—two-thirty in the morning can be, I suppose." She turns back, tilting her head at him. "Was there something you wanted?"

 

The apologetic expression disappears as he starts with realisation. "Oh, right. I just thought I'd— uh." He frowns, sliding his arms to fold over each other across his torso. "Sorry there's no music tonight."

 

She blinks. Had he really come just to apologise for _that_?

 

"It's fine," she says automatically. And then she winces inwardly at his partially surprised expression.

 

Shit. He'd probably been expecting something more than just a curt brush-off. Not that she'd _meant_ to brush him off — she really _is_ fine with it. (She can't really help that her usual tone of speaking always sounds just the slightest bit, well, _hostile._ )

 

"Do you—" she starts, before he can say anything. She pauses when he does, giving herself all of a single second to think it over. "Do you want some hot chocolate?"

 

He looks even more surprised by that than _'it's fine'._ He rocks on his feet a little, glancing past her into her apartment and then back at her.

 

"Uh. Sure."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nothing much really changes between them over the rest of the week, except for two things.

 

One: She starts texting Cassian her song requests, instead of running back and forth in the corridor with folded pieces of paper. It's vastly more convenient and undoubtedly the more superior arrangement. Especially when he replies with a dry quip or other that makes her smile to herself.

 

Two: They have hot chocolate two more times throughout the week.

 

A few days later, he even invites her over to his apartment, so they can mess around on his piano.

 

"I wish I'd learned properly," she laments half-heartedly, trailing her fingers over the keys.

 

"It's not that hard," he says, sliding onto the bench beside her. "Here, I'll teach you."

 

It takes them a full half hour, but she more or less learns the chopsticks song, _and_ 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'. She also subsequently gets her mind thoroughly blown when he starts singing 'Baa, Baa, Black Sheep', because _holy shit_ it's the _same goddamn melody_ and she's never once realised it in all her twenty-two years.

 

Cassian then blows the metaphorical crater in her mind even wider when he starts singing the alphabet song over _the exact same tune._ The one _everyone_ learns their ABC's with. _That_ song. _Same_ fucking melody!

 

Also, he can _sing._ (Granted, he's no Josh Groban; but his voice is gentle and lovely and she could have sat there listening to him sing nursery rhymes she hasn't even _thought_ of in years _all night long_ with literally no problems at all _._ )

 

 _Bodhi's right,_ she tells herself as she flops back into her own bed an hour later, more relaxed than she's been in a good long while. _You should definitely start introducing yourself to the neighbours from now on._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The flyer appears under her door the next day, sliding through the crack with a quiet _'whoosh'_.

 

Two minutes later, she's knocking on Cassian's door.

 

"Oh," he says when he opens it, looking more sheepish than surprised to see her. "I didn't want to knock, in case you were asleep. Hi," he adds as an afterthought, mouth curving with a smile.

 

"Hi," she returns amusedly, before holding up the flyer. "Care to elaborate?"

 

He's _blushing,_ she realises with a start as she watches him look at the flyer, his hands resting on his hips and then lifting off again, like they're not sure where to go.

 

"Right," he says. "That. Yes. Uh. Well. I just thought— that is, er, my friend Kay told me about it. I thought maybe you'd want to check it out, or something."

 

She cocks a brow. "You thought I'd want to go to a two-hour classical piano concert after learning to play… the chopsticks song?"

 

A deep breath rushes out of him then, his shoulders deflating as he shakes his head ruefully. "Okay, I'll admit, I don't _know._ I just thought it might be… a thing." He wrinkles his nose. "Probably not _your_ thing, come to think of it."

 

She squints up at him, head cocked thoughtfully. "Is it _your_ thing?"

 

He pauses, glancing at her. "Not really."

 

She rolls her eyes, already smiling despite herself. It's not like she didn't already _know_ the answer, if she's being honest. She's heard him play the fucking Animaniacs theme song on the piano. On _multiple_ occasions.

 

"Okay, then," she decides, "let's just skip the pretending-to-be-cultured-so-we-can-impress-each-other-for-a-few-months bullshit and… I don't know. Go see a movie, or something."

 

He nods quickly, mouth quirked in a smile of his own. "Yeah, preferably one with as many explosions as possible. Or Chris Pratt."

 

"Or both," she adds dryly. "You know. For peak mainstream value."

 

His smile stretches even wider at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "It's a date."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time they kiss, it's on that piano bench.

 

The first time they fuck, it's very _nearly_ on that same piano bench. (Thankfully, Cassian has the good sense to hit pause once she starts yanking at his shirt, moving them both to the bedroom before any real _nakedness_ can happen.)

 

Eight months later, she's helping him move everything he owns into her apartment — piano included.

 

Once they've got it slotted against her living room wall, she dusts her hands off and takes a step back, admiring the way it looks there, next to her sturdy old bookcase.

 

"It fits," she says proudly, still a little breathless from the workout of carrying the large instrument. "I knew it would."

 

"And _I_ knew you'd been eyeing it the whole time," Cassian teases as his arms wind around her middle, stepping sideways so her back is pressed to his front, his fingers interlocked around her waist.

 

"Well, I _did_ get to know him before you," she says easily, leaning back into his embrace.

 

She feels the comforting weight of his chin nuzzling into her head, just off to the side of her crown. "Huh. That's funny. Most people think of instruments in the feminine."

 

She shakes her head, butting it lightly into his jaw. "Nah, it's definitely a him. All the keys in the higher octaves are a little dulled out, and the ones in the lower register all have this lingering sort of _echo_." She sweeps her hands over his forearms, letting her fingers curl gently over his wrists. "Plus, it reminds me of you."

 

The band of his arms tightens around her, tucking her frame into his. "It reminds me of you, too."

 

She turns, sliding her arms around his neck as she buries her nose into his neck. They're both covered in a faint sheen of dust and sweat from all the moving, but right now, she doesn't really care.

 

"By the way," she says into his shirt, reluctant to pull away from the warmth of his body, "if and when someone new moves into your old place, we should probably introduce ourselves. Welcome them to the building or something."

 

"What for?" he says, sounding bemused.

 

She turns her face, burying her smile in his shoulder. "No reason."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> just in case you're wondering, the first song Jyn requests Cassian to play can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E6b3swbnWg)
> 
> you can also find a lil visual for this fic [here](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/159343326711)!
> 
> catch me jumpin thru hyperspace [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)


End file.
